Page 132

Naturally.

“You organize your socks by color, don’t you?” I ask suddenly.

Ashby glances at me briefly. “That’s personal.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not relevant.”

Lucy leans forward between the seats slightly. “What color comes first?”

Ashby’s expression remains completely serious. “Charcoal.”

I stare at him. “You absolutely sort your socks.”

“Only the dress ones.”

“Oh wow.”

From the backseat, Lucy giggles.

Ashby’s gaze flicks toward the rearview mirror. “You think that’s strange?”

“Yes.”

“Your aunt alphabetizes spices.”

“You traitor,” I hiss.

Lucy gasps softly. “Really?”

“I like efficiency,” I defend myself.

“It’s no different to socks.”

“It is, because people confuse cinnamon with nutmeg a lot.”

“Nobody’s life has ever depended on pumpkin seasoning.”

“You don’t know that.”

Lucy laughs harder this time, the sound small but real and warm enough that Ashby’s eyes soften in the mirror.

Then the entire situation deteriorates even further. I still don’t fully understand how it happened.

One second Lucy’s humming something about frogs she learned at school, and the next Ashby’s joining in and knows all the words, which feels wrong on several levels, considering the man looks like he stepped fully formed from the pages of a luxury watch advertisement.

“You know this song?” I ask, caught between suspicion and jealously.

“I have nieces.”

Lucy kicks her feet lightly against the back of the seat, providing rhythm and supporting vocals as Ashby continues singing with complete sincerity about frogs and their love of rain puddles.

And then, horrifyingly, I start laughing so hard, I end up joining in.

By the time we pull into the school drop off line, we’re even harmonizing.

When we round off with a flourish, I sit holding my coffee, feeling like I’ve temporarily entered an alternate dimension.